


All the Roads We Have to Walk

by allonsys_girl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 1990s, Bisexuality, Coming Out, Coming of Age, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, M/M, Masturbation, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV John Watson, Post-His Last Vow, Recreational Drug Use, Smoking, Teen Angst, could be canon compliant, possibly, sexual awakening
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-17
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-01 23:38:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2791898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsys_girl/pseuds/allonsys_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Teenage John coming to terms with his bisexuality, exploring, figuring out who he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aconissa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aconissa/gifts).



> This fic was inspired by a fabulous tumblr text post by aconissa about teen John figuring out his bisexuality, and I just wanted to run with it. http://anigrrrl2.tumblr.com/post/105528348051/aconissa-tell-me-about-teen-john-discovering
> 
> The Oasis concert John and Harry went to was a real concert that took place on 4 November, 1995. 
> 
> The fic title is from the Oasis song Wonderwall, and the lyrics at the end of this chapter are from the Radiohead song High and Dry. Both those albums came out in 1995.
> 
> ***thanks to cumberbear and thealogie for their insight about the UK secondary school system

_**1995, Houndslow** _

John broke up with Gemma Richardson on a Monday afternoon. She was pretty enough, funny and smart, and always came to John’s rugby matches, and he felt like he should have liked her more than he did. Being a rather honourable sort, he didn’t think it was fair to stay with her when his level of interest wasn’t much above _meh_. She wasn’t horribly upset - they’d only been going out for a few months, after all. She gave him a hug before leaving and whispered, “I hope you find what you’re looking for, John. You’re a sweet bloke. You deserve it.”

John sat in Costa’s for quite a long while after Gemma left, cradling his cooling flat white between his palms and turning her words over in his mind. He knew what she’d meant, of course. Or, he thought he knew. He guzzled the end of his now ice cold coffee and picked up his knapsack. He needed to talk to Harry.

***

Harry was home from uni for the winter break, had been for about a week. John dropped his bag and hung up his jacket. The house was quiet, no lights on to indicate that his parents were home yet. Harry’s door was closed, but he could hear the steady thump thump of her stereo. He knocked at the door, a riot of Pixies and Morrissey posters, wristbands from various concerts, a glow in the dark condom with a smiley face on it that Dad kept throwing out and Harry kept putting back up. 

“Harry,” John called, and knocked louder. 

The music quieted and then the doorknob clicked and Harry’s freckled pale face appeared through a sliver of open door, looking suspicious. She broke into a grin when she saw John. 

“Hey, little brother. I thought it was Dad. Your voice has gotten so deep, you sound like him now.” She turned and flopped on her bed, leaving the door open. “What’s up?”

John cleared a space on the trunk at the foot of the bed, holding up a mass of school papers and cassette tapes and half empty nail varnish bottles. Harry waved her hand at him carelessly, and he set the pile on the floor before folding his legs under him and settling on the trunk. He fixed his eyes on the Radiohead poster behind Harry’s bed. 

“I broke up with Gemma.”

“Oh.” Harry sat up and brushed her long carrot coloured fringe out of her eyes. “You okay?”

“Yeah, fine.” John picked at his fingernails, the crusted dirt from the rugby pitch that he could never quite seem to completely clean out. Now that he was here, this was harder to talk about than he’d anticipated. Nirvana thudded away quietly in the background, low enough he wasn’t sure what song it was.

“You sure?” Harry leaned forward and touched his knee. “You don’t really seem fine.”

“No, it’s not - I wasn’t really that interested in Gemma, honestly, Harry. I mean, she was nice, but. No. That’s not what’s bothering me.” Starting this conversation with a real actual person, even if it was his sister, made everything so much more real. He’d had this conversation with himself a hundred times, staring up at his ceiling with moonlight sifting down over his bed, telling himself it was fine. It was okay, and it was _fine_ , and it was just who he was, even if he never did anything about it, and the ball of tension in his stomach would unravel just enough to let him sleep. 

“Well, spit it out, Johnny, come on then.” Harry reached in her side table drawer and pulled out a bottle of blue sparkly nail varnish and drew her knees up to her chest. “Tell your big sister, little man.”

“I hate it when you call me that.” John could feel the scowl spreading across his face. Harry had a good 13 centimeters on him, and knew his height was a sore spot. 

“I know.” Harry smiled wickedly, but without real malice. “I’m just teasing, Johnny, trying to lighten the mood.”

“Well, I don’t want the mood lightened, alright? I have something serious I want to talk to you about.”

Harry’s face changed, her normal mischievous twinkle replaced by true concern. She lowered her knees and moved forward on the bed, sending a few random CDs clattering to the floor. “I’m listening. Go on.”

John chewed his lip, looked from his twisting fingers up into his sister’s indigo blue eyes, exactly the same colour as his own. The only similarity in their looks, really. John was elfin - tiny, even, though he hated admitting it - a turned up nose and messy spiked hair, blonde and lithe and toned. Harry was tall, broad shouldered and imposing, with a flaming orange mane and a wide full mouth that rarely stopped moving, her physical proportions matching her personality.

“Harry.”

“Johnny.” She patted his knee again, dropped her voice into a softer tone. “It’s alright. I won’t tell Mum and Dad, whatever it is, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“No. I know you won’t do. I’m just, um, not really sure...how to ask.”

Harry didn’t say anything, just sat quietly with her legs crossed and watched him. She was an intuitive listener, despite her often manic energy and incredibly smart mouth. She knew when to just be silent and let people’s minds work. John never felt like Harry was just waiting for her turn to talk, but was really attending to what he was saying. He couldn’t talk to anyone else like this.

“How’d you know? You know. That you were, um.”

Harry’s eyes went wide just for a second, but she recovered quickly, and cleared her throat. “Oh. Okay, so. We’re having _that_ conversation. Okay. How’d I know I was gay?” 

John nodded, his eyes on the hangnail he was currently pulling at. There was a lump in his throat and he didn’t know why. 

There was a loud exhalation, and Harry shifted, turned so her back was against the wall and her long legs hung over the edge of the bed. John looked up and she was looking at the wall across from them, at the corkboard covered with pictures of her friends from uni, of her girlfriend Clara. She swallowed. 

“I knew because, I just _knew_. I mean, in primary school, right? It was already...when I had feelings for anyone, it was always a girl. Remember Cathy? I mean, we were best friends for years, but I always. _Liked_ her. Like that.”

“I didn’t know that. Did you ever tell her?”

“Nah. I knew she was straight. She wouldn’t have been interested, and I didn’t want to lose a friend. Then she moved to Yorkshire and that was that. But. You know, I just never had any of those kinds of feelings for boys. It was pretty clear, from like age five.” 

“Right.” 

“Johnny. What are you really trying to ask me here?” Harry very carefully didn’t look at him. She plucked a pack of Marlboros from the windowsill and cracked the window open, letting in a rush of icy cold air. She picked up a pink lighter and lit one, offered it to John. “I know you don’t usually, but do you want one?”

“Nope. Thanks, though.” 

Harry shrugged and put the cigarette to her own lips. She took a drag and blew the smoke out in a long stream through the open sash. She waited. 

“When Gemma left, after I...you know. Broke up with her. She said, I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

Harry made a humming noise, took a drag. “And? What did she mean by that, do you think?”

“I think she knows that I. That I - I like someone else. Like _that_.” 

“Okay.”

“A bloke.” John said, so softly he could barely hear himself. 

“Ah.” Harry took another drag, and then moved toward him, curled over with her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands. The filter end of her cigarette rested against her cheek. “I thought so.”

John’s head snapped up. The room was frigidly cold with the window open. He could see his own billowing breath mingling with Harry’s cigarette smoke. “You did?”

“Yeah. For a while now.” She smiled at him, affection and worry filling her eyes. “How are you feeling about it?”

“I. I don’t know.” John said honestly. He was shaking. “Yeah, give me a drag of that, actually.”

Harry passed the cigarette over as John climbed up on the bed beside her so they were shoulder to shoulder. He took a small drag and coughed as the strength of it hit the back of his throat. Harry laughed and thumped him on the back.

“Shut up.” John said, but for the first time in hours, his face broke into a grin. He handed her back the cigarette. “That’s fucking disgusting, by the way.”

“Oh, please. You smoke _weed_.”

John stared at her and sputtered. “I - how - but - I’m really careful - “

“I’m your big sister. I _know_ things about you. Like that you like blokes.” Harry pursed her mouth and raised one eyebrow at him. “Also you’re _not_ careful. You leave rolling papers all over your room and I borrowed your jacket last week and there was an empty plastic bag in the pocket that _reeked._ You arse. You’re lucky Mum and Dad are oblivious.”

“Well, shit.” But somehow the vaguely smothering feeling he’d been carrying around in his chest for months had dissipated. He had said it, aloud, and the world hadn’t come to an end. Harry was teasing him about smoking pot and they were laughing in her bedroom, and it really _was_ fine. He didn’t feel like a different person for having admitted it to someone other than himself. 

“So, you broke up with Gemma because you’re gay?”

“No. Well. I don’t think I’m _gay._ I mean, I still like girls. I just...there’s this one bloke, and I can’t stop...thinking about him, Harry. And I think, it’s just, I liked someone more than I liked Gemma, you know? It wasn’t right, for me to keep on like that, with her.” The words had become an avalanche pouring out of him. He couldn’t stop. “I like both. Is that? Can you do that? I mean, I don’t even know. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Harry nudged his shoulder, looking at him out of the sides of her eyes. “Yes, you can do that, you silly arse. You can like both. There aren’t really _rules_ , Johnny. You just are what you are. So. Who’s the bloke?”

“Olly Hughes.”

“Oh.” Harry’s pleased grin made John blush slightly. “Yeah, he’s a babe. If I was into blokes…”

Olly was a forward on John’s rugby team, they’d been casual friends for years, just hung with same crowd and played the same sports. Lately, though, their friendship had shifted into something that sent John’s belly shivering whenever Olly walked into the room. Olly was stout and strong, smooth chestnut coloured skin, a halo of black curls and a smattering of pale freckles across his nose and cheeks that made him look younger than seventeen. He smiled easily and laughed a lot, was kind to everyone, and was much smarter than most of John’s other teammates. Both he and John were doing an Extended Project alongside their regular A levels, and they’d decided to help each other study. Most of their mates didn’t care about getting into good universities. John had had his heart set on medical school for as long as he could remember, and Olly had recently decided that medicine was his path as well.

“Yeah, we...study together a lot.”

“And...has anything... _happened_ during these study sessions?” Harry stubbed out her cigarette with a lecherous grin and wiggled her eyebrows at John.

“Harry! No!” To his intense embarrassment, he felt a flush creeping up his neck, his cheeks reddening. “I just, um. Like him, I guess. And I think Gemma kinda knew. I think that’s what she meant.” 

“I see.” Harry wriggled her nose thoughtfully, scratched an eyebrow. “Well, do you think he’s interested?”

“I have no idea. I haven’t really thought it out yet.” 

They lapsed into silence. Harry lit another cigarette. 

“So when did you realise? Was it Olly, or...before?”

John thought about it. It was before. It was going to the movies to see Trainspotting and not being able to look away from Ewan McGregor’s bare chest. It was feeling the same shiver down his spine whether it was a cute boy or a cute girl next to him in class. It was being seven years old and not understanding why it wasn’t okay for him to give the boys a kiss when they left for summer break, why that made his teacher angrier than when he kissed the girls. It was watching James Bond with Dad when he was eleven and feeling ashamed that he didn’t want to _be_ Sean Connery as much as hold hands with him. It was the first time he smoked weed at a party and lost some of his natural inhibitions and ended up laying on the lawn staring up at the stars with Chris Westmoore’s head in his lap, and how easy it was to reach down and drag his fingertips gently through his friend’s hair, how it felt as natural as it did with a girl. 

Harry was staring at him. 

“It was before. I just - I don’t think I really had the words to - “

“It’s okay, I’m not grilling you. There isn’t a wrong answer, Johnny.” Harry moved down enough that she could tip her head against John’s shoulder. “No matter what Mum and Dad would think, no matter what anyone else says. There’s nothing _wrong_ with us. You know that, right?”

John stared across the room at Harry’s corkboard. The pictures went slightly blurry as the lump returned to John’s throat. He rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand. Harry curled her arm round his forearm and squeezed his hand. They hadn’t held hands since he was six years old crossing the street. It felt the same now, as though Harry were keeping him safe, protecting him from the world around them that didn’t give a shit. He squeezed back. 

“I know that.” 

They sat in near silence for a long time, the only sound in the room the hum of the stereo. The sun was beginning to set, Harry’s room swathed in a warm orangey glow that was at odds with the actual tempurature.

“My back is frozen solid.” Harry murmured into the quiet.

“Mine, too.” John paused, dropped Harry’s hand to the bed and gave her a small smile. “I’ve got homework, but. Thanks. For all this.”

Harry slammed the window sash down, tucked her hair behind her ears and chewed on her bottom lip, her blue eyes round and brimming with emotion. “Johnny, I mean it when I say there’s nothing wrong with us, alright? This isn’t our parents’ generation. It’s not illegal, it’s not - it’s not how it used to be. I know how you are sometimes, wanting to fit in, be like everyone else. You don’t have to sell yourself short, yeah?”

“I know that. It’s just. It’s easier, you know? To just - fit in.” John turned at the door, feeling as if he’d left something unsaid. “I admire you, for that. For just being yourself. That’s cool. I admire you for a lot of things, Harry.”

Harry snorted a laugh and waved her hand at him as she flopped down across the bed on her stomach. “Oh, go on then. None of your sappy shit. Get out. Go see your boyfriend.”

“Oi! He’s not my boyfriend!” John picked up the nearest soft object, which happened to be a furry Union Jack pillow, and threw it across the room at Harry’s laughing face. 

She batted it down and tucked it under her head. “Well, go _get_ him, then, little brother. And shut my fucking door on your way.” 

***

The conversation with Harry had somehow lifted the weight he felt he’d been carrying around for - years - if he was really truthful. He still wasn’t ready to tell anyone else, least of all the majority of his hyper macho rugby mates, but John felt marginally less nauseated and terrified when Olly came over for a study date the next night after dinner. 

John swung the front door open, already feeling a blush creeping up on his face. Shit. 

“Hey, Olly.” He heard the waver in his own voice, and desperately hoped Olly didn’t catch it. Now that he’d admitted how he really felt about Olly, his emotions seemed stronger, less controllable. 

“Hey, John. Nice shirt. I like that.” Olly said in his broad accent. His mum was Welsh, and his accent was different than John’s. He liked hearing Olly’s long vowels, his clipped consonants, the way his mouth moved around words differently. 

“Er. What?”

“Your shirt. It’s brilliant.” Olly winked and pointed at John’s chest.

He looked down, not even remembering what he was wearing. “Oh. Yeah. Harry and I went to see Oasis last month at Earl’s Court. She bought me a shirt. It was brilliant. I can’t believe I didn’t tell you about it.” 

Olly grinned, his dark eyes twinkling. John swallowed hard. 

“I can’t believe you didn’t either. I can’t believe you didn’t _invite_ me. I’m going to have to rethink this whole friendship, honestly.” Olly brushed past him as John closed the door, his jacketed elbow against John’s stomach. John shivered, glad Olly’s back was to him. 

“I didn’t buy the tickets - I mean, it was Harry’s treat - I would have invited you, you know, if - “

“John,” Olly turned, a broad grin lighting his face, “I’m just fucking with you. Relax.” 

God, he must sound like the most besotted little twat. He fought the urge to roll his eyes at himself. “Right. I know. So. You want a Coke or something before we go up to my room?”

 _Why_ did that sound so much like John was inviting him up for more than studying? 

Olly didn’t seem to notice. “Sure, Coke sounds great.” 

Ten minutes later, they were settling down on John’s floor with two Cokes and a plate of cheese and crackers. Olly pulled a tattered copy of _Prometheus Unbound_ from his knapsack and stretched his long muscular legs out in front of him. He leaned against John’s bed and laid the book on his lap. 

“So where were we last time?” Olly raised a Coke to his lips, smiling around the turned glass opening. John could see his tongue flickering into the bottle as he drank, pink and pointed.

John cleared his throat and willed himself to ignore the overheated feeling that was creeping over his skin. He reached under his bed where his own copy had fallen the night before. “Um. Line 480, I think?”

“Right.” Olly flipped his book open. John watched the curve of his fingers, the press of his thumb against the page, the knuckle torn and scabbed from their last rugby match. His hands were so big. Rough. So much bigger than John’s own delicate ones. One of Olly’s hands would encompass the entire side of John’s face. 

Olly’s hands on his face. In his hair. Tipping his head back. John’s breath caught as he felt his neck flushing. God, he’d never felt like this about anyone. He was mesmerised by Olly, every part of him. He’d never had another boy under him, on top of him. He’d never felt the solid hard weight of another muscular flat chest against his own, the scrape of a stubbly chin against his throat, the heat and hardness of another cock slipping against him. He _wanted_. So badly. 

“John? You alright, mate? You’re all red.” Olly was squinting at him with concern. 

“Yeah, fine. Sorry.” He picked up his Coke and guzzled it to cover his embarrassment. “Let’s read, yeah?

***

“Seeya.” John closed the door behind Olly’s retreating form and sagged against it, his blood thrumming hard through his veins. His heart was hammering and his jeans were getting uncomfortably snug.

“Did you two get a lot done, Johnny?” Mum came out of the kitchen, a glass of wine held loose in one hand, an unlit cigarette in the other.

“Yeah, Mum. It was great. I’m - I’m tired. I’ll see you tomorrow.” John grabbed the newel post and swung himself up onto the lowest step, and practically ran up the steps to his room. 

He closed the door quietly so as not to attract Harry’s attention, and locked it. He flung himself onto his bed, already fumbling with the flies of his jeans. He pushed them down until they were tight around his knees, his cock a hard thick line inside his cotton boxers. He palmed himself and bit into his bottom lip to stifle his moan. Rubbing himself slow from bollocks to tip, the fabric of his pants creating a delicious burning friction, he shut his eyes and thought of Olly’s face, those full lips, those laughing eyes. _Olly’s mouth on his, grinning, laughing, his hands everywhere._

“ _Oh...ohhhh…_ ” John began to thrash, his knees bending, he kicked his jeans off all the way, socked feet skidding across the sheets. He pulled one fingernail up the underside of his cock, tracing the vein, imagining it was Olly’s little pink tongue. “Oh, _fuck,”_ he whispered, voice gutted by arousal, and frantically pushed his pants off to take himself in hand.

He moved his other hand down to cup his bollocks, push them up against his body. The sensation sent electricity sparking hot through him and his stomach cramped. He stroked himself harder, thumbing at the wet slit and spreading precome slick across his palm. _Olly on top of him, grinding…_ No, that wasn’t right. He’d been right on the edge, and now he was chasing it, the heavy tightness in his belly dissipating. _John in Olly’s lap, his cock hard against John’s back, a toned brown arm resting against John’s hip, one of those huge hands wrapped around John’s cock…_

“Yes, fuck, oh _god,_ ” John slid one finger back, pressing against his perineum, and quickened his fist on his cock. His foreskin was particularly pliable and he loved the feeling of the whole of it enveloping the head of his cock. He slid it up and twisted his hand. He could almost feel Olly’s hot breath in his ear. _John, god, come on, come, John, come._ Olly’s voice was as clear as if he were really there, deep and resonant, always a slight smile in it. John arched up off the bed, bracing himself with one foot flat against the wall, pumping into his hand as the tension in his stomach began to build into something he couldn’t back away from.

He dropped the hand that had been cradling his bollocks to the bed, gripped the edge of the mattress as he came, in spurting hot pulses over his fingers, his throat closing around a desperate whining grunt. His arse clenched as a second wave coursed through him and his prick pulsed again, thoroughly soaking the golden brown thatch of curls between his legs. He gritted his teeth, turned his head into his pillow and tried not to groan as loudly as he wanted to. 

He let go of himself and wiped his hand on the sheets, not bothered about cleaning up for the moment. Aftershocks coursed shiveringly through him, making him whimper as his hips jumped involuntarily. He raised his hands to press them against his burning cheeks. Jesus fucking Christ. He had just wanked to the thought of his friend, his rugby mate, his study partner. He had to see Olly again in less than twelve hours. He didn’t even know if he’d be able to look him in the eye. 

When he’d finally recovered enough to creep down the hall to the loo, he grabbed his showering things and went to clean up. He washed slowly, unable to stop thinking about how the hell he would ever be able to talk to Olly again without turning bright red and getting hard. It wasn’t that he was a bloke. No, he was sure it wasn’t that. It was that Olly was his _friend_ , and he could royally and permanently cock this up if he miscalculated. 

Harry’s words from the day before ran through his mind. _Nah, I knew she was straight._

Olly hadn’t shown any signs of being interested in John like that. He flirted a bit, messed about with him, but Olly sort of did that with everyone. He was charming and flirty and kind, and _everyone_ liked him. John probably didn’t have a chance even if Olly wasn’t straight. If he _was_ straight, and John came on to him, and word got round...he could lose every friend he had. Be ostracised. Be alone.

The thought made his throat sore. He realised suddenly that _he_ wasn’t uncomfortable with who he was, no, that wasn’t it at all. It was what other people would say, how they could make his life hell. Would _want_ to make his life hell, just for liking blokes as well as girls. A few select faces from his rugby team popped into his mind, and it wasn’t difficult to think of the vile taunts they would throw his way. The unfairness of it washed over him cold as a bucket of ice, and he spent several furious minutes trying not to punch the shower wall. 

He finished his shower soberly, feeling deflated and foolish, and slipped back into his room as quietly as possible. He locked the door and retrieved a small carved wooden box from the top shelf of his closet. He curled onto his bed cross legged, throwing a sheet over the mess he’d made earlier. Bed linens could be changed tomorrow, he just didn’t care right now. As he licked the rolling paper, he reached over and flipped on the radio. John lit a stick of incense to cover the smell and took a long deep hit from the joint, laid back in his pillows and looked up at the familiar cracks and water stains on his ceiling as Thom Yorke’s bizarrely soothing whine filled the room. 

_Drying up in conversation,_

_You will be the one who cannot talk_

_All your insides fall to pieces,_

_You just sit there wishing you could still make love_

_They're the ones who'll hate you_

_When you think you've got the world all sussed out_

_They're the ones who'll spit at you,_

_You will be the one screaming out_

_Don't leave me high, don't leave me dry_

_Don't leave me high, don't leave me dry_

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I couldn't actually write a story without Sherlock. It just wasn't possible.

_**2016, London** _

“So why’ve you never told me any of this before?”

“You don’t exactly inspire confidences, Sherlock. _Oh, by the way, did I ever tell you about how I fell in love with my best friend when I was a kid? I’m absolutely certain you won’t either A: ridicule me or B: not pay me a single sodding bit of attention while I’m pouring my heart out to you._ I mean, honestly. Why would I have done? Before now, anyway?”

“Because I’m your best friend.” 

“Course you are, you ridiculous arse. Still are. But that doesn’t mean you aren’t more than a bit of a wanker.”

“So are you, John.”

“Touché, my love.” 

John pulls Sherlock more closely against him, a haze of early morning summer sunlight drifting over one pale bare shoulder. He puts his mouth to Sherlock’s blanket warmed skin, and smiles as Sherlock rumbles contentedly and wriggles back into John’s chest.

“You can’t _actually_ make yourself smaller, you know. Christ, but you’re like a cat sometimes - going to try to curl yourself into a breadbox next?” John trails a fingertip down the indentation of Sherlock’s waist, plucks lazily at the elastic of his pyjama bottoms. 

“Shut up.” Sherlock murmurs fondly. He pauses, turns his head enough to look at John out of the side of his still sleep-puffy left eye. “So why now?”

“Hmmm?” John finds himself rather distracted by the softness of Sherlock’s belly against the heel of his hand, and the damp earth smell of the back of his neck.

“I said,” Sherlock flips abruptly, dislodging the heretofore lovely entanglement of their limbs, and props his head up on one long slender hand. He fixes John with that intense stare that usually means John’s not getting out of this anytime soon, though it’s softened slightly by a gentle upward curl of his lips and the fact that his other hand is already resting warm and solid on John’s hip. “I said, why now? Why are you telling me about Olly now?”

“Well. I guess...because of this.” John reaches up and tenderly sweeps a limp curl from Sherlock’s brow, allowing his fingers to linger along the dips and angles of that beautiful, beloved face. “Because you’re not _just_ my best friend anymore, and...and I just thought you should know. Everything. About me.”

The intensity in Sherlock’s eyes softens. “I want to. I can’t bear to not know everything about you. I can’t bear it.”

“Somehow I’d figured that out. _Mr I Stole Your Birth Certificate._ ”

“Will you never leave off that?” 

“Never. When we’re ninety years old, in our matching rockers at the care home, I’ll be taking the piss out of you about that one.” John thumbs over Sherlock’s lower lip and chin, still absolutely beguiled by the sight of him like this, rumpled and soft-edged, all tangled hair and morning breath as horrible as anyone else’s. Perfectly imperfect.

And wholly, immeasurably, remarkably, _John’s_.

Sherlock snuggles in, crooking his arms against John’s chest in what’s become a enchantingly familiar way, and tucks his head under John’s chin. “So tell me the rest.”

“The rest?”

“John, I refuse to believe that you woke me up on a Sunday morning and chose to randomly tell me the story of your first sexual and romantic encounter with another man only to have it end with a sad wank in your bedroom and a cry in the shower. That’s not even enough for the first chapter of a poorly written teen novel.”

“Christ, you really are _such_ an incredible wanker.”

Sherlock rubs his head against John’s throat, warm curls catching against his morning stubble, soft lips brushing sweetly against the top of his sternum. He drapes one long leg over John’s hip and whispers nearly inaudibly, “Tell me.”

John sighs, not at all sure he’s ready to delve back into these memories, not entirely sure why he decided today was the day he wanted to share this with Sherlock.

“Tell me, John,” Sherlock repeats softly, fingertips now tracing slow patterns against John’s belly, in the scant humid space between their bodies. 

The intimacy between them is intoxicating. John’s never in his life had this kind of connection with another person. After everything they’ve been through together - and apart - after nearly losing each other so many times and in so many ways, the significance of these small moments is never lost on John. Maybe _that’s_ why now, why today. Just because Sherlock was pressed so tight against him when he woke up, and the sun was shining for the first time after a week of rain. Because there was a cup of cold coffee from the night before on the bedside table, so he didn’t have to get up immediately and make some. Because these are the kinds of things that forge a life together - telling the stories of your adolescent embarrassments with stale coffee on your breath, all curled together in bed, far too late on a bright Sunday morning in July.

And because they’ve had far too few moments like these. 

“Alright, love, I’ll tell you.”


End file.
